She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t yield another point. So she shook her head and hoped that would suffice, because if she opened her mouth, a sob might escape.Stupid, Eleanor. How can you have memorized entire passages ofThe Art of Warand yet still have underestimated the enemy? Stupid. Careless. Worthless.
“There are holdouts, you know.” His pity cast her self-reproach in antimony and tin. “The newspapers are all on board, but some publishing houses aren’t ready to transition, or they don’t have the capital to do so immediately. The entire industry will not change in an instant.”
You might still have work, is what he was saying. “But it will change in a decade, won’t it?” Her voice cracked and hot, uncompromising shame consumed her.
At least now he had the grace to look uncomfortable instead of proud. Guilty instead of righteous. “You have less time than that, I think,” he said quietly.
Eleanor stared at the machine in front of her. She’d bested it—for now. But she knew how far practice could take a person. These keys made no sense to her, but in a year’s time, they would make sense to someone. That someone would operate faster than Mr. Gray had today, and Eleanor would no longer be the most sought-after compositor in London.
As Peter pulled the warehouse door shut, he saw Eleanor and her friends grasp one another’s hands.Damn. The Linotype was about to create a lot of collateral damage. He’d always known that it would, and he’d told himself that it was necessary. He’d just not expected the collateral damage to have a face, or a soft laugh, or a fascinating mind. He’d not expected tolikethe collateral damage.
You are not making her destitute. She is an intelligent woman. She will adapt just fine once she realizes she has to.
Traditional compositors could retrain. Their reading skills and attention to detail would put them in high demand. If they chose not to forge another career, their circumstances would be their problem. His problem was the people who depended on him and that was it. His estates needed the money. His sisters needed financial independence. They were not Eleanor. They were kind and responsible and intelligent, but they could not fend for themselves the way she did. They might all be at the mercy of feckless husbands if he didn’t do something. He had no choice, and even if he did, he wouldn’t take it.
It’s for the greater good, not just mine. I am not a soulless automaton.
The Linotype would improve far more lives than it would ruin. An educated populace would have more opportunities forsuccess. There would be economic benefits, health benefits, social benefits. If today’s deception was the cost, then he would bear it as he’d borne the weight of everything else.
But if he was to do so, he would dull the memory of her shock with a damned drink.
Andrew was waiting by their office, his toe tapping. “I’m going to check the machines. I doubt they’ve destroyed anything, but still…”
Peter sighed and hoped the damned woman had done nothing to force him to report her. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, go check.”
He needed distraction from her and his guilty, disgusted conscience. The chairs needed straightening. The wastepaper basket needed to be nudged to make sure it was in its proper place. There were papers on the floor that he’d dropped when he’d heard intruders enter. He snatched them up. Thank the Lord he’d not barged into the main room with the stovepipe Andrew kept by the door. He’d have had to deal with their tears, though perhaps Eleanor would have swung back and he’d have had to deal with a bleeding nose instead.
He took the bottle of brandy from his desk and poured himself a glass. Booklover’s latest letter was folded in his breast pocket. His hand went to it and concern for himself faded. Her day had been as bad as his. He didn’t know what had caused her to feel so defeated, but he wished he could fix it, could make her feel better.
Dear Booklover,
I’m sorry that your day was so awful. I am furious on your behalf and would take on the Greek gods myself, if it would ease your hurt. Please don’t shy away from telling me how you feel. You couldn’t scare me away. It’s not possible. I fear you are stuck with me as a friend.
I understand what it is to question yourself. I also have an excess of pride, and I understand what panic feels like when everything that you’ve worked for starts slipping away.
Success has been just beyond my grasp for years. I’ve chased it as hard as I can in order to stave off the consequences of what will happen if I fail. Now, I finally feel some relief. It seems as though success is imminent and all the people who rely on it will soon have their own “safety and freedom,” to use your terms.
But though I have much confidence, I can’t slow down yet. I must do whatever it takes in this final stretch, even though I’m not proud of some steps that are necessary. One will haunt me for a while.
I still feel the brush of panic. It sits at the corner of my vision, quiet for now but not forever. Once success is in my grasp, it will no doubt pounce again, this time in a shape that mirrors yours. It will convince me that the security I’ve finally earned, I will also lose. Is “safe” a feeling that ever lasts?
The only advice I have for you is to fight. Get scrappy.Get skin under your fingernails. Harden yourself, and do the things that others feel are beneath you.
I wish I could help. Instead, trust that I am here, cheering you on.
Do you think we should meet?
—Captain O.T.N.
Chapter Fifteen
Do you think we should meet?
What on earth had he been thinking? The moment Peter had returned home, he’d pressed the letter into the hand of a footman before cowardice won out. Then he’d spent the rest of the night second-guessing his decision.
What if she said no?
What if they met, and she was not at all what he expected?
